Damian's POV
I lost track of how many coworkers I pushed past on my way out to the lot. Slipping on my helmet, I squealed out to a confused look on the access guard's face. He extended his hand as I almost tore off the liftgate in my hurried exit.
The ride back to my apartment zipped past me in a fog. Cars and cabs blurred past me on the streets as I leaned and swerved between them. Pedestrians flipped me off and shouted when I hopped the curb and zipped down alleyways.
My vision blurred through the hot tears that streamed down my cheeks. Pushing through them, I held a death grip on the handles and choked my bike between my thighs.
The wail of Fire and EMS alarms hit my ears two blocks from the scene and the vehicles' lights hit my eyes in a haze of red and blue flashes. By the time my condo building came into view, my heart dropped so fast and far down that I almost threw up. Without remorse, I slipped around clogged-up traffic from a Patrol unit rerouting around a blockade.
A blockade around my condo building.
"Sir!" An officer rushed at me as I jumped my bike over the curb. "You can't -"
"Captain Rivera. It's my fucking apartment," I snarled at him, shut off my bike, and threw it down on the sidewalk.
It landed with a scrape of metal that should have concerned me, but my only concern was June. My eyes scanned the area, which included the injured security guard lifted into the back of an ambulance. His eyes were closed but the shakes in his shoulders indicated that he was still alive.
June. Please be here.
Slow steps exploded into a sprinted run as I shoved my way past any and every static body in my way. With my badge flashed out for VIP access, I cursed each cop, fireman, nosy neighbor giving their statements, and sidewalk gawker out of my path. Returning swear words and 'hey! Watch it!' shouts didn't register.
The cool glass of the circular entrance doors met my palms as I slammed them as hard as I could, humming vibrations through the thick air. The slow pace of the revolving doors only fired up my frustration to the point my heart thumped in my ears. I wanted to smash my fists through the glass.
Fucking hell!
Inside the elevator, I collapsed my shoulder against the elevator wall and pushed 63 over and over with my thumb.
Click, click, click.
The hums and soft shakes of the elevator had nothing on the tremors that shook me. My fingers twitched without my control. Spasms in my shoulder vibrated down every vertebra in my spine. Alternating convulsions tensed the tendons in my wrists.
Our hallway was full of activity, but not in a good way. A few neighbors stuck their heads out or stood in my way, interviewed within a sea of cops and EMS workers that threaded in and out of my apartment. One obvious fact seized my heart, squeezing it with pain.
They're not moving fast.
They moved with slow, steady, and synchronized, autopilot movements. My breath stalled in my lungs at a gurney pushed out the door. A white sheet covered a small body, which whimpered a soft sound that tore my heart into a million pieces.
Four limp, gray paws draped near the edge.
"Bullet," I croaked and stepped over.
My dog, my best buddy, laid on his side, his eyes wide, pupils pooled, and tongue lagged out his side. Splatters of blood matted his short, gray fur and outlined his muzzle. His chest pitched in rapid, uneven movements. A large red stain pooled around his right shoulder. At the sight of me, his whines intensified, so I cupped my hand around his top ear and rubbed. He thumped his tail on his gurney bed.
"Bully, I'm so sorry buddy." His brown eyes blurred under the tears that welled up in my eyes. "Fuck, is he -"
"He's been shot," the EMS worker informed me. "We're taking him -"
"Wait." I pulled out a white cloth from my pants pocket. With one hand cupped under Bullet's soft, squishy muzzle, I rimmed the outline of his mouth with a handkerchief.
The tip of my finger brushed over his teeth, but I only stopped once the blood was removed. My breath froze in my lungs as I leaned over and pressed my chin to the top of his head. "I'm so sorry, Bully. They'll take good care of you."
"Take him to AMC on Sixty-Second," I instructed and slipped her one of my business cards. "Tell them whatever he needs, do it, and I'll be there soon."
"Yes, sir."
I hadn't realized my tears tipped over the edges of my eyes until my cheeks tickled. A dizzying sensation rushed through my head as I stepped into my trashed condo. Among the chaos from flashes of navy NYPD blue was a storm of furniture overturned, glass broken, and blood.
Fuck. There's so much.
Splatters on the walls.
Drips curved a path out the door.
A pooled amount was near the living room sofa.
Handprints streaked the bedroom door frame.
My hands clenched so tightly that I was surprised I hadn't torn open the skin on my knuckles. Pain burst from the side of my hand up through my wrist as I pounded one fist on the kitchen counters. "Somebody fucking tell me something!"
"Captain Rivera." A nearby officer palmed my shoulder. His mouth moved and fuzzy, slow-moving sounds buzzed into my ear. All my attention, my focus was on a white sheeted body in the middle of the hallway.
Fuck no.
"One of the perps," the officer assured me, which sagged my shoulders. "He bled out."
Relief mixed with uncertainty, and both took out my knees in a kick sweep. Hands clutched my shoulders and guided me down to the floor. The reality of June's location smashed into my heart with each sobering thought.
She's gone.
They took her.
June.
My June.
Part of me couldn't believe I was here, in my place, our home. I was trapped in a horrible nightmare and waited to jerk myself awake. The hardwood floors under my ass weren't mine, the taped off evidence zones didn't include my bathroom and bedroom doors, and the metallic smell of blood wasn't filling my nose.
A blurry figure squatted down in front of me, and an uncertain voice hit my face. "Sir, we need a picture."
"Huh?" I grunted out.
A throat clearing sound answered but I still couldn't fucking see straight, let alone answer a question. "Your girlfriend, we need a picture."
I blinked. Over and over, I blinked because my brain was fucking broken.
"We need a picture for the kidnapping alert." Hands pushed a broken picture frame under my nose. It's a picture of me and June at a family cookout last summer. "Can we use this, Sir?"
I look like shit and she's beautiful, sitting on my lap with her elbows squeezed around my neck. My hand cupped her ass and I looked at her, not the camera. Her cheek pressed into my nose and a smile lit up her entire face.
The spiderweb crack that jarred the image mirrored my heart. It hurt more than any physical pain.
Fuck, what if I never see -
"Will this work?" the officer asked again, a hint of irritation slipping into his voice.
Other than the violent earthquakes that reverberated through my body, I nodded my head in silence. He muttered thanks, stood up, and disappeared with the picture frame tucked under his elbow.
Internally, I tried to regain composure. My instinct screamed to push forward, my training urging me to gather as much information as I could... but I couldn't.
I can't get up.
I can't breathe.
I can't fucking think.
I can't function.
Another throat cleared above me. It was dry, so dry. My eyes lifted to, among all officers, Lieutenant Hernandez.
When the fuck did he get here?
"I'm so sorry, Damian." Tears glistened on his bronzed cheeks. He made no attempt to wipe them away, leaving his knuckles white at his sides. "We'll find her."
My throat was as dry as my chapped lips. They split with pain as I mouthed the words. I needed a few ragged breaths before a broken whisper rushed out of me, "F-find her?"
He nodded and extended his hand to me, tears trailing over his round cheeks. "I copied your security footage after you left your phone with Jenks. They took her."
Those three words slashed into me. He cut my heart out with those words. My knees pitched, swaying me. Never before had words torn my emotions in half.
They took her. She's alive.
They took her. She's in danger.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I scanned the scene. "Did she -"
"She fought them, three on one, even shot one of the fuckers. Two if you count a misfired taser." He pointed at the sheeted body. "After they shot the dog, they knocked her unconscious and, two on one, dragged her out."
In the face of that information, my mind froze. I needed a few raspy breaths before I processed all of it.
Three on one... and a half since they injured my fucking dog.
Blood roared through my veins and throbbed in my neck. Heat flushed under my skin, my muscles tightened to the point of wanting to split open, and black dots edged my peripheral vision.
I never wanted to harm an already dead body more than I did at that moment. So, I lunged.
Lieutenant Hernandez must have read my thoughts, because he lunged as well, in my direction. His shoulders slammed into mine and his arms enclosed around my waist. We both grunted as his belly squished into mine. Hovering over me, he maintained the upper hand.
Upon contact, I collapsed. My shoulders flinched and tears streamed out my eyes. I sobbed onto his shoulder.
"June... fuck, June... I can't..." I whispered over and over.
His hands patted my back. I was thankful he offered no words, no promises, only silent comfort. My eyes burned from the tears and my heart was ripped out of my chest. Words he ingrained into me resurfaced, cutting through the blotchy haze that my brain melted into.
Examine all angles.
"So that..." My index finger was a damn leaf shaking in a hurricane as I pointed to the blood spot on the floor.
"The dog's." He cleared his throat and corrected, "Your dog's."
My eyes closed from the mixed emotions that rose inside me. With a shaky hand, I lifted the blood-stained handkerchief to him. "This was around Bullet's mouth."
"Probably Mister John Smith over there." His chin lifted to the body. "I'll make sure forensics matches but he has puncture marks on his forearm."
Crimson blood streaks on the white, almost translucent fabric caused a chain reaction. A sour sensation coated my tongue, my throat squeezed in on itself, and my stomach lurched. Within two coughs, Hernandez thrust a trash can under my mouth and nausea bubbled up my throat. Hot, acidic vomit burned my throat and mouth, then spewed from my lips as I emptied my stomach.
Once I threw up, my stomach churned and churned like it wasn't done. My eyes welled up and, choke after choke, I threw up until only spit and bile expelled from my lips. I gasped into the soft, white cloth Hernandez pressed over my mouth, and wiped myself clean.
Trembling and gasping for air, I collapsed down until I sat, half-slumped over on the floor. My legs kicked out straight and all I could do was look down at my hands, my useless fucking hands. Trembles blurred my fingers as I lifted them and cupped behind my neck.
Hernadez's hand palmed the top of my head. "Your family put up a fight. Now it's our turn, Damian."
"They shouldn't have had to," I whispered.
June. Bully.
I failed her. Failed them.
My dear, sweet June.
Years of training prepared me for 'what's next,' a large canvas area search. Camera feeds, witness accounts, every second we took to gather any and all intel was another second they got further away.
And yet... I still couldn't fucking move. The life knocked out of me, my life stolen, I was helpless. But my superior officer could, so he clasped his arms around me, hauled my ass up off the floor, and dragged me out of my invaded and violated home, empty after my family was attacked.
"We'll find her. Tracking the plates right now," Hernandez's voice was gritty in my ears. "White van, peeled outta here forty minutes ago going off street cameras."
Forty minutes. She could be out of the city by now.
"Can you go somewhere? Stay with someone?" His hand patted my shoulder.
Hardness tightened the muscles in my face, strained only with the clench of my jaw. My eyes still burned and I squeezed my fists so tight that my nails cut skin.
"I'm going to work."
Bright, white flashes and insistent, buzzed questions were directed at me. My lips twitched and rounded around the words that blurred in front of me. Numb and robotic, I smoothed my sweaty palms over my pants, then gripped the podium.
I was in no shape to deliver this press conference. The only reason I stood here was my response to this stupid back-and-forth bullshit game of who hit harder.
Being truly honest, I was done sparring tit-for-tat. Primed and ready for the knockout blow, the problem was I didn't know who to swing at.
So, I swung at all of them.
And I'm not backing down. I refuse to cower back.
Once my initial crippling reaction receded, anger swelled up inside me. My blood boiled and a rapid pulse hummed in my ears. I clenched my jaw so hard my molars ached. I wanted to break the edges off the podium under my grip and smash every fucking camera pointed at me.
"I'm here to announce the kidnapping of a female victim, Juneau Olstead, twenty-five from her apartment near Central Park at eight-thirty-seven this morning. A recent photograph of her is posted on our media outlets, along with updated persons of interest."
As with these announcements, I held the room's sympathy. Glaring at them, I dared them to dismiss the severity here, write it off as another lost person.
"Crime Stoppers is currently offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to her identification. I urge the public to contact NYPD and not to engage with any person of interest because they are assumed to be armed and dangerous."
A stunned silence enveloped the media room, followed by floodlights of white flashes and questions hurled at me.
"Thank you." I stepped down without entertaining a single one.
"Damian!" A loud screech of my name rang out. "Oh, my fucking gawd!"
My eyes lifted up to Mom and Emma bursting through my office door with loud, stomped steps. Tears streamed down their eyes, and they flung themselves onto me, almost toppling over my chair.
Arms wrapped around me, my neck, my waist, my shoulders. They filled my ears with sniffles and soft sobs, wetting my shirt and the side of my neck.
"Damian," Mom lamented as she clung tightly to me. "I'm so sorry, Honey."
Six hours had passed since June was taken. Time tortured me with each second moving too fast, and us moving too slow.
I called in every available detective. We searched through every surveillance camera, issued tri-state missing person bulletins. Online, Media Services posted the ten-thousand-dollar reward for information that led to June's recovery, along with recent pictures of Samantiego and Amaya.
In the back of my mind, Santino laughed his ass off from within his Rykers cell.
I buried my face in Mom's dyed black curls, fresh with the smell of her coconut shampoo, old lady perfume, and mass hysteria.
Emma's shoulders shook as she sobbed into my neck. Congestion filled her inhales and her exhales rasped out hot breaths, but I hugged her closer. "I'm so sorry, so sorry," she repeated.
"She's..." Words escaped me. Taken, stolen, and kidnapped all slammed inside my brain, entrapped inside my skull.
"She's gonna be alright." Mom cupped my cheeks in her hands. "NYPD will tear the entire fucking city apart until they find her."
Mom's words were meant for comfort, but they caused the opposite reaction inside me.
Fuck, what if she's not in the city?
Any one of the tristate bridges and this amount of time would've taken June halfway to Florida, the MidWest, or the Canadian border by now. My hands lifted and I fisted my hair, which pulled Mom and Emma back. They wiped their red, tear-stained cheeks while I yanked so hard that pain burst from my roots.
My heart hurt so fucking much, I swore it was broken into pieces. I hurt more than if I'd been attacked, tased, or even shot.
But I'll take this pain, over and over, every day if it means she's still alive out there.
It's my fault she's gone.
The idea that she suffered, waited, and hoped we found her fucking ate my insides out because that's what we were doing. My entire fucking division had one assignment.
Find, rescue, save her.
An empty vessel, I felt hollow, empty, and fucking useless. All of the information that NYPD possessed sat at my fingertips and none of it helped.
Cameras tracked the two men's exit from the building into an unmarked white van, where they placed June inside. Not a single fucking sign of her had been seen since then. The van was tracked as far as Broadway and Ashburn Ave, where it disappeared under a camera dead spot.
Officers combed the South Bronx area, as well as reversed the exact path the van took on the way to my building for any sign of June. An abandoned van was recovered, but not a single hair or fingerprint was found.
I tried not to think about the cemetery up the road from that intersection. Every second counted or was wasted, so I ushered Mom and Emma out with a promise I would update them when I had one.
"If there is anything, anything we can do -" Mom palmed my chest.
"There is," I interrupted. "I need that snake taken out of the apartment."
The one glimmer of good news was Bullet's wound was patched up and he was expected to make an almost-full recovery. Since Dr. Harris ushered him into surgery without knowing if he could keep his leg, that was welcome news.
"Snuh-snake!?" Mom's eyes and mouth rounded. "Damian, no fucking -"
I guided her out and leaned against the frame. "Just call the Cleveland Zoo."
The slow trickle of processed evidence was maddening. Forensics reported back in a record eight hours.
Six distinct prints came up from my apartment. One matched the body that now occupied a cold cell in NYPD's morgue. His cause of death was ruled bleeding out from two shots to the shoulder. Normally, that wasn't a fatal shot, but his brachial artery was hit by two bullets shot from my Glock, with June's prints on them.
No amount of pride in how my girl fought outweighed the fact I hadn't been there with her. I hadn't protected her. She never should've needed to fire that gun.
June's prints came up, as well as mine but nowhere in the evidence areas. Out of the other three prints, two matched low-tier accomplices of the scumbags I suspected in the NYPD database.
Fucking Santino and Amayo.
I broke every form of glass in my office, every picture frame, lamp, plaque, even overturned my desk when I got that report. The prints of the man June shot matched prints from one of MS-13's versions of contracted out henchmen.
Fucking revenge plot without a single fucking lead about where she was taken.
"Fuck!" I roared out and smacked my palms onto the side of my desk, which now pointed up to the ceiling.
"Sir!" a female voice barked at me. "Get a hold of yourself."
My eyes lifted to my doorway, where Shirley stood. Her hands were clasped together, hung down over her thighs.
"If you have anything sarcastic to say, don't," I warned, even though my lower lip quivered violently against the trembling that shook down my spine. Eying my overturned desk, I mumbled, "Those paper stacks had it coming."
"No..." Shirley's eyes rounded and, surprisingly, flooded with tears. "I'm sorry, Damian. I can't -"
"We'll find her," I muttered, my fists clenched so hard my nails cut my skin. "We have to. So, if there's nothing else -"
"There is." Her dark fingers twisted as she shifted her wrists. "Maria quit. She clocked out last night like normal, but never showed up this morning. I called her number and her mother said she's not returning to work here anymore."
Can't say I blame her.
June's kidnapping produced its intentional effects. Anxiety and fear rippled through Vice and other departments of NYPD. Emotions and security protocols were elevated under the urgency we found June.
"Send a patrol interview to her home address." Rubbing my forehead, I doubted any coincidence but wasn't willing to rule out anything as a coincidence.
Fuck, I'd send a unit out to June's old employer if I had one to spare.
Shirley gave me a somber nod, her eyes gazing at me. "Sir, I-"
"Thank you," I mumbled and extended a hand to my door. She understood the words that choked themselves in my throat.
Cupping my forehead, a fresh round of hot tears sprung to my eyes. I let out a raspy whisper, "We're trying, Sweetheart."
We're trying.